Blood Rites
by TricksAndTreats 3 Contest
Summary: Bella was warned not to return to Forks. That doing so would only invite the darkness. But when a letter arrives, pleading that she come home, she can't resist the chance to finally answer the question that has plagued her most of her life: Is he real? Standard Disclaimer: The author does not own any publicly recognizable entities herein. No copyright infringement is intended.


—

"I sent my Soul through the Invisible,

Some letter of that After-life to spell:

And by and by my Soul return'd to me,

And answer'd: 'I Myself am Heav'n and Hell"

– Omar Khayyám

—

 **October 29**

On October 29, at 11:42 a.m., a man leapt to his death. His name was John Sumner, a 62-year-old family law attorney in the small town of Forks, Washington. Mr. Sumner took one long, empty step off the roof of the Rialto movie theater, abandoned and left to rot after a fire ripped through the building ten years ago.

Twenty-seven teenagers and four employees burned alive in the blaze—some so ravaged by the fire that their little bodies had to be pried apart, the synthetic fibers of their clothes and glue from the laminate floor having practically welded the burnt corpses together. Some were found crowded around locked doors, piled together in their last moment of hopeless agony. Others were found in the bathroom, where it appeared they had hoped dousing themselves in water from the sinks and toilets might allow them to survive. But all would perish—save for one. A girl who, for some unexplained reason, left her seat in the middle of the screening. She walked outside the theater and stood on the sidewalk, where she watched every friend she had in the world burn alive, cringing at their screams.

Now, Mr. Sumner lies draped over the hood of a black 2005 Volkswagen Jetta. His pelvis is shattered from the impact, legs sprawled on the pavement like a limp marionette. His head protrudes through the smashed windshield. Jagged shards of laminated safety glass stand embedded in the loose skin of his neck while blood seeps across the black dashboard. Mr. Sumner's eyes are open, frozen at the moment of impact and peering at the young woman trapped in the driver's seat. His lips quiver, more blood leaking from the corner of his mouth. And then he utters one clear and impossible phrase: "I see you."

The young woman in the car rips her attention from the dead man and stares up at the roof of the Rialto. There stands an irregular black figure. Not human. Not of this earth. A demon. Her own personal curse. And just as she knew it would, death has found her. It's found me.

#

I was supposed to have an appointment with Mr. Sumner at noon. I guess he couldn't wait. Instead, for no apparent reason, he leapt to his death. Perhaps because the Rialto is the tallest building on that block. Perhaps because my car was directly beneath him. I don't offer this theory to the cop who takes my statement at the police station an hour later. It's that kind of talk that got me sent away in the first place.

If you look close enough at any town, you'll find its dirty little secrets. For me, the evidence was always a bit closer to the surface. So when I left Forks years ago, I never had any intention of coming back.

Now, I can't stop staring at the painting on the wall. Between me and it, John Sumner's partner at the law firm sits at his desk. He speaks to me, but I hear only muffled fragments. In the next room, where I should have been sitting if not for Mr. Sumner's sudden departure, an office sits empty. The young receptionist is still crying in the lobby. In here, it's business as usual.

"That painting," I say, interrupting him.

The man turns to glance over his shoulder. He makes a sound, almost a hum. "Oh, do you like it?"

An oil painting framed in ornate gold. Well, plastic painted gold and brushed with black to give it that rich, antique, old-world feel. It depicts a crowd gathered around a massive burning pyre at night. Shrouded silhouettes gaze upon the bright, blazing inferno. At the center, a woman burns at the stake.

"Took me thirty-some hours all told," he says with a proud smile. "Were you old enough to remember the story of Aloyse Lesassier?"

Every school kid in Forks knows the legend. Like the story of the first Thanksgiving or Christopher Columbus arriving in the new world, we're told the terrible tale of murder and mayhem that swept through the early French settlements throughout the coastal Pacific Northwest. How the fur traders and fishermen were besieged for weeks by a dark, demonic force which left only horror and death in its wake. Until the local native tribes offered a solution.

"Sorry it isn't under better circumstances," he says as I rip my eyes from the painting. "But it's lucky you made it in time for the festival. Going to be a great one this year."

Eleven months out of the year, Forks, Washington, is an unremarkable town—home to loggers, sport fishing guides, and the working poor. But come October, a fever sets in. A sort of mass hysteria spreads through its people. Myth, murder, and mayhem become an obsession. A celebration of tradition and ritual so old, so ingrained in the town's heritage, it would nearly cease to have an identity otherwise.

"I don't plan to stay in town that long." Though, with the current state of my car, I'm not sure of my exit strategy. "I have to get back to Seattle."

"Ah, well, that's a shame."

I wonder if he'd display the same reaction if Mr. Sumner had slammed right through the ceiling and splattered on his desk. Would he watch the man bleed and grimace at the mess?

"Suppose it's just as well, though. What with all the unpleasantness."

"If you don't mind," I say, "Mr. Sumner and I have had a rather trying day..."

"Yes, yes, of course." Nodding, he rummages through a drawer. "I won't take up any more of your time." He slides a manila envelope across the desk. "Inside is your complete copy of the will. You are your father's sole beneficiary, so it is all rather simple in that regard. You'll find a list of all major assets, property, retirement accounts, and so forth—minus expenses for the funeral. Enclosed is also the name and number for a realtor, since I understand you'd likely wish to sell the house."

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a single silver key to slide across the desk. I've never had a key to Charlie's house—my childhood home. I couldn't be trusted not to lose it. Never allowed to be home alone.

I guess I thought Charlie would live forever the way, as children, we think of our parents as having always existed in a permanent state of adulthood. That we'd grow up while they stayed the same age. More so, that when Charlie died, I'd simply never know about it. But three days ago, a letter arrived. The last of many and the first to reach me. Charlie was dead. He had been laid to rest in accordance with his wishes, due to the trouble locating me. I'm not sure what bothered me more: that Charlie provided no means of contacting his only child in the event of his demise, or that he had to die in October.

"I'm very sorry for your loss," the lawyer says. "If there's anything at all you need, just give us a call. I'm happy to help."

Everything my father was and left behind fits neatly into an envelope. The sum total of his life. And I feel nothing more than strange fascination. Perhaps disappointment that, now orphaned, I didn't know either of my parents well enough to miss them.

The lawyer escorts me back to the lobby, where the young receptionist has stopped crying. She sits behind her desk, eyes trained on mine. And yet she's vacant. There's an unmistakable absence about her. Like a doll. Always watching and seeing nothing.

"Ms. Swan," the lawyer says, offering his hand when we reach the door. As our palms meet, though, his grip tightens, squeezes sharply. "You shouldn't be here."

"What?" I yank my hand away.

"Have a nice day," he says. The dull pleasantness returns to his face as he holds the door open for me. "Anything I can do to be of service, please don't hesitate to ask."

#

Artifacts. That's what my third psychiatrist called them. Those tiny traces of psychosis that break through an otherwise normal experience. Funny though, knowing the madness exists doesn't make it any less maddening.

I decide to walk to Charlie's house. It's about two miles outside the town center, the hub of shops and restaurants, town hall and police station. Six blocks of Romanesque Revival architecture dotted with the occasional clapboard late addition. Between every lamppost hang huge draping swaths of red and black fabric. Skeletons stand in shop windows while cloaked reapers guard entryways. In the town square, a massive totem of carved pumpkins watches over a pumpkin patch as I walk under a banner welcoming tourists to the annual Halloween festival. All is as it was the last time this place laid eyes on me. I've gotten older, but everything else is exactly the same.

The house is dark when I arrive. Fallen leaves clutter the front yard and blanket Charlie's truck. The shutters are closed, and the house seems to exhale when I push open the front door, expelling weeks of stale air and dust. I stand at the entryway beside Charlie's coat hanging on the wall. His boots line the scuffed baseboard. An empty coffee mug rests on the kitchen table beside a copy of the local paper and a plate with a half-eaten microwave breakfast sandwich that has disturbingly not yet molded. A full basket of dirty clothes sits waiting outside the laundry room. Through the rear window, I see my old tree swing hanging by one frayed rope, the other length since broken and snaking through the grass. This place is full of ghosts.

But it's my bedroom that I hesitate to enter. Upstairs, first door on the left. There's a thick layer of dust at the threshold. A narrow line where the vacuum has for more than a decade skimmed against the wall and missed the gap at the door frame. A film coats the doorknob. It's soft and fine between my fingers. And then it starts. Racing pulse and static that enters at my hands and travels through my limbs. It must be five, ten degrees colder inside. Only gray shards of light slip through the closed shutters. The bed has been stripped down to a bare mattress.

The devil came to me in a dream. I was five years old, asleep in my bed, when a sudden sense of panic shook me awake. The room turned cold. A sort of dead, freezing chill. I remember the silence. As if I'd been rendered deaf. I couldn't hear my own breath leave my lips. Not the sound of the blankets as I gathered them with tiny, shaking fingers around my shoulders. Then a long black silhouette appeared in the corner between two windows. It seemed to almost flicker and undulate like a cloud of smoke and lightning. And from it, I felt a presence—engulfing and persuasive. Like a black hole, it pulled me toward it. Infinite darkness and inescapable gravity. Then pain. Violent, stinging pain. My wrist was slashed. Not by a blade or other means that I could see, but opened. One deep line straight across. Bright, shining red seeped out and dripped around my bare feet.

It's all I recall of the incident. The next morning, Charlie woke me. Somehow, the wound had healed into a perfect red scar. All other evidence of the encounter had vanished. It was not the last time this terrible apparition would visit me. The devil came to me in a dream, and he's had his hand around my neck ever since.

Now I find myself staring into the corner where that ghastly shadow first appeared to me. Then walking toward it. Sliding my back down the wall to hug my knees to my chest as I sit, silent and small in the dark, dead house.

#

The rough cement is cold beneath my feet. Tiny rocks and coarse debris dig into the soft pad of my heels, my toes. With both hands behind my back, I grip the wet steel railing and suspend myself out over the edge. The river traveling sixty feet beneath the bridge is deep and quick, lit only by one dim streetlamp and the massive moon overhead. Wind sweeps my hair around my face, but it makes no sound. Leaves rustle, muted. It is an unnatural, unnerving stillness. Except for one voice. Not words or noise, but rather a pull tugging me down. I feel it suffocating me from inside my head, its spindly arms reaching up from the darkness below. It begs me, commands me to jump as my fingers slip and my weight carries me fractions closer to letting go. The voice wants me to die, and for a moment, a brief second of clarity that pierces through the veil, I'm tempted to comply. Embrace the silence and be at peace.

But I'm ripped from the trance. Bright, blinding light surrounds me. All at once, sound and sensation overwhelm as two arms encircle me from behind and yank me back over the railing.

"Hey, hey. You're okay. I've got you. I've got you."

Warm hands grasp my face. Blinking, I stare up at him. Something like a memory or maybe trick of the light flashes behind my eyes. Just as quickly, it's gone.

"Holy shit, Bella?"

The sound of my name is still unfamiliar to me. I haven't used it in years.

"Bella, it's Jake. Remember?"

Jacob Black. A scrawny kid with long black hair and a mischievous streak. He used to throw rocks at my window, calling me to sneak out of the house on some midnight adventure. Not a kid anymore.

"Yeah," I say, swallowing against the dryness in my throat. "Yeah, of course. Jake."

"The hell are you doing out here?" There's panic in his eyes. Maybe a bit of accusation.

That's when it occurs to me. I don't know how I got here. I don't remember leaving Charlie's house or walking the five miles to the bridge. And I can't tell Jake that.

"Just, uh, clearing my head, you know?" Even I'm not convinced by the lie. Jake appears almost insulted at the attempt. "It's been a tough day. I just needed..."

"You aren't wearing any shoes," he says. Another accusation. "Come on." With an arm around me, he leads us to his truck stopped in the middle of the bridge. He reaches behind the passenger seat and pulls out a pair of sneakers. "Here, Leah left these. I'm sure she won't mind."

Jake drops the shoes on the ground, and I slip them on. A bit too big, but once my feet are covered, I realize I've all but lost feeling in my toes.

"Get in," he says. "I'll take you home."

That word almost makes me flinch. Home isn't Charlie's house. It isn't even my apartment in Seattle. I'm a stateless exile. Have been since I was thirteen.

"Actually," I say once he gets in beside me and shuts his door, "how about a drink?"

#

Jake and I end up at Cricket's Tavern. It's a smoky dive on the edge of town with an old juke box and slanted pool table. Lumber workers play darts while corrections officers and truckers crowd the bar. It's past eleven, and most of these people have probably been here since five. Drinking is Forks' second favorite ritual.

We grab a table in the corner, buffered in relative privacy from those courting their beer mugs and shot glasses. He tries to maintain a kind, friendly smile as he watches me sip my bourbon, but I know that look. Careful observation. Searching. I've seen it in a dozen different psychiatrists and therapists over the years. To him, like them, I'm a specimen. A curiosity to be uncovered and examined. And he's still not convinced I wasn't on the bridge to jump. I suppose I'm not either.

"I heard about what happened this morning," he says. "Are you okay?"

"Better than Mr. Sumner." Or my car.

"Fuck, man. I can't imagine."

And yet, shocking as the event was, I almost expected it.

"I'm sorry about Charlie," he says, if just to get the topic out of the way. I'm almost grateful not to dance around it. "The funeral was nice."

Even if Mr. Sumner had found me sooner, I wouldn't have been there. People staring at me, grossly fascinated. The psychotic daughter returned from whatever hole in which her father had hidden her. There's one question, though, which has plagued me since receiving the letter. It is in no small part the reason I returned.

"Have..." Now the words don't want to leave my lips. "Has anyone heard from my mom?"

Jake frowns. There's pity and disappointment in his expression, the way he tilts his head to the side. Silly girl.

"Sorry, no," he says. "We wouldn't even know where to start looking."

"Right, yeah." I was stupid for expecting anything more. "Just, you know, if there was ever a time she'd pop up, I figured..."

"Bella..."

"No, it's fine. I shouldn't have brought it up."

He takes a long swig of his beer, likely hoping to ignore the awkward silence. "So," he says then, leaning in with his elbows on the table. "What've you been up to?"

It isn't the question he wants to ask. Not really. But it's polite. It's what people say.

"I'm living in Seattle." Existing, more like it. "Work from home, mostly. Web maintenance and IT security for small businesses." In the past three years, I've held a dozen jobs. Sometimes three at a time. Anything that keeps me up at night. As a rule, I only sleep two or three days a week. It's just easier to stay awake than fight the nightmares. Then, when the exhaustion sets in, I take some Ambien with a whisky chaser to dip into a short oblivion until the sun goes down.

Jake gives me a gently chastising look as I finish my drink and wave at the bartender for a second. Then I remember that custom dictates I ask Jake about himself in return.

"What about you?"

"Believe it or not," he says, leaning back in his chair, "I joined the force."

"You're a cop?" For the first time in years, I'm nearly compelled to laugh.

"I know. I've come a long way from coaxing you out of your window and breaking into abandoned buildings."

"And grand theft marine vessel."

"Yeah. Lucky for me, no one ever pressed charges."

I didn't notice at first, but Jake's become rather handsome. A round, boyish face, sincere brown eyes, and a charming dimple on his left cheek. Puberty was kind to him. But he always did have that certain optimism of people whose lives find a way to continuously improve.

"Charlie recruited me, actually. About five years ago, soon as I turned eighteen."

"That must have gone over well on the reservation," I say.

"Lot of the people on the rez work in town now. We shop out here, go to restaurants and the movie theater. Charlie thought it'd be good for the tribe to have some representation in the police department. We haven't had the funds to support our own police force in over a decade."

It's strange to hear someone talk about Charlie as something recent, or good. But my memories are distant and of frustration and guilt, sadness and hopelessness. He had no more idea what to do with me than I did. His daughter became a problem he didn't know how to fix. Keeping me around was only a reminder of his failures and inadequacies.

"It isn't perfect," Jake says, and in the crease of his forehead I read the tension of a man pulled between two worlds, "but it's better than nothing."

The bartender drops off my drink during the awkward lull in conversation. I don't how to reconnect, to rekindle those old bonds. Jake is the first person I've ever had the chance to remember. Even now, I don't keep many friends.

"Tell me," he says. "Why were you really on that bridge?"

The conversation takes a distinct turn toward interrogation. I've had these discussions in offices, through glass, while restrained, and under the influence of copious sedatives to the point I wasn't sure whether I was speaking aloud or only in my mind. Never in a bar.

He won't get the answer he's looking for, but I'll give him one he'll believe.

"You know why Charlie sent me away," I say in response.

"They found you on the bridge just after dawn."

Barefoot, dressed in only my pajamas. Ten years tomorrow. I've stopped believing in coincidence or happenstance.

"Charlie wouldn't tell me where you went after that. Just that you needed to go so you could get better."

"It was a boarding school, of sorts." The kind of place that sits at an intersection between prison and an institution. Everyone there was either knee-deep in psychosis or interning as a career criminal.

"Because Charlie thought you were..." Jake's too kind to call me crazy to my face.

"Paranoid schizophrenia," I say, just to end the anticipation.

Those words don't mean anything to me. Nothing but a cloud I live beneath, a label I accepted to appease the doctors and earn the right to live outside among the rest of society. It was that, or spend the rest of my days eating meals with a rubber spoon. My truth is so much worse.

"Wow." Jake backs away, slouching in his seat. He can't help it. The natural reaction to recoil from us is involuntary.

"It's not contagious," I tell him, smiling to let him know it's okay to laugh. "I'm fine now. Really."

"I had no idea." He rubs his hands over his face, more sober now than when he walked in. "I've thought about you, you know? I tried to ask Charlie for your number, but he always got real quiet when someone mentioned your name."

Charlie decided a long time ago that he'd failed as a father. Failed to fix whatever had stolen his daughter. After that, he simply chose to forget he ever had one.

Jake reaches out to place his hand on top of mine. "I've missed you."

A sudden urge overwhelms me. Like hunger. A deep, instinctive and ravenous need. I want to smash my glass over Jake's head. To slice at his face with the broken shards and rip a gash across his throat. Blood pours from the wounds. Gushing, dark, thick streams. I smell metal and something sweet. But he keeps talking. Jake smiles, pulls his hand away, then takes a sip of his beer. I know it isn't real. Artifacts. Just dust on the camera lens. The gruesome horror exists only in my mind.

#

Jake does most of the talking on the drive from the bar. I keep my hands fisted in my lap, concentrate on my breathing. The visions don't alarm me as they once did. Still terrible, frightful things, but they always pass. The nausea wears off and shaking stops. All there is to do is endure. When we reach Charlie's house, Jake walks me to my door. In the years we spent growing up together, he probably walked through this threshold only a third as often as he climbed up the tree outside my window.

"Have you given any thought to staying awhile?" he asks, leaning against the porch railing.

"A couple days, max. I'm just here to settle the house, sell what I can. This place isn't good for me."

"I get it," he says. "Bad memories and all that. But..." Again, he takes my hand, and this time, he stares at the exposed scar on my wrist longer than I'd like. "It could be different this time. You belong here."

He was a sweet boy who grew into a kind man. But Jake doesn't have the first idea what he's talking about. I was never meant for this town. It's allergic to me.

"At least promise you'll stay for the Halloween festival. For old times' sake."

"Goodnight, Jake." I place a kiss on his cheek. For stopping me from plunging off that bridge. For reserving his judgement. And for being one memory I can stand to remember. "Thank you."

#

I know better than to fall asleep tonight. He's here, waiting for me. Drifting out of consciousness only makes it easier for him to slip inside. So after a shower, I drink coffee and forage through the house—the years of my forgotten life. Old photo albums and keepsakes. I come across a photo of my mother. I know her only because she's holding me as an infant. For most of my life, I've closed my eyes and seen only a blank space when trying to recall her eyes, the color of her hair. I could have passed her on the street a thousand times and never given her a second look.

She was beautiful. Much too pretty for such a small town. Much too young for Charlie. Everyone says that's why she left. Disappeared without a trace. That's the nice version, anyway. Linger in a dark hallway long enough, stand just outside a room so you cast no shadow, and you hear the more creative suspicions. That she whored her way through town, never content to spend the night in the same bed twice. Every man who ever set eyes on her was just grateful Charlie was the one to take the fall and raise the strange child her slut mother bore.

I've never questioned whether Charlie was really my father. It wouldn't make much difference.

I'm on my second pot of coffee when I notice a change in the air. The lights go out. That dead, empty silence swells inside the house. It's hollow, deep. The way a tunnel or canyon feels massive, even with your eyes closed. A chill rushes through me, and I'm frozen in place, sitting on the floor amongst a pile of boxes, when I see the shadow streak across the wall. A sense of death surrounds me. Torment and unending misery. Then screams pierce the silence. Shrieking, deafening cries of agony. A fire. Fierce, burning flames lashing at my skin. Boiling, bubbling flesh that oozes and melts from the bone.

And just as quickly as it began, it's gone. Quiet again. The house is still, unaware of the assault. The lights flicker on, bright and blinding. When I look up, a message is scratched into the wall: LIAR.

 **October 30**

Something rattles me awake. I hadn't intended to fall asleep, but I find myself slumped on the couch with no recollection of how I got here. Light seeps in through the slats of the window shutters. Morning. I realize the sound is someone knocking on the door. I answer it to find Jake standing on the porch.

"Morning," he says, smiling and cheerful. "Sleep well?"

"Uh, sure."

It's a bit jarring to see him in uniform. The black polyester and shiny gold badge remind me of Charlie. In my head, it's all he ever wears.

"What's up?" I ask.

"Thought I'd take you to breakfast."

"I'm not sure if I'm up for much public interaction today. I've got a lot to do to, and..."

"Come on," he says, coaxing. "Can't start the day without a decent breakfast. My treat."

"You're on the clock, right? Don't you have delinquents to hassle or something?"

"Protect and serve. I see it as my civic duty to make sure you don't starve."

Fine. I suppose some fresh coffee and solid food isn't a terrible idea.

"Okay," I agree. "But only if I get to play with the siren."

#

Jake takes me to a coffee shop just a block from the lawyer's office. It's part of the town's new push toward bougie artisan businesses. Places designed to appease the tourists. Farm-to-table and made from scratch. Outside, the street is lined with vendor booths. Art, crafts, trinkets. A small farmers' market and locals hocking souvenirs.

While Jake waits at the counter for our orders, I pick up a copy of the local newspaper off a vacant table and sit down. The issue is a week old. Above the fold, a picture of Charlie.

 _Police Chief Charlie Swan tragically drowned while fishing on Lake Bayak after suffering an accidental head injury and subsequently falling overboard. Officer Jacob Black, of the Quileute Tribe, was first on the scene after Chief Swan's boat was found washed up on shore near the La Push territorial boundary._

I can't imagine what that was like. To be the one to respond to the empty boat, watch the hours pass without sight of Charlie swimming back to shore... I almost wish I were capable of feeling some sort of empathy. But there's a hollow space in my chest where those emotions should live.

At the next table, a man bites into a scone while staring at his iPad. He scrolls past a photo of police and firefighters inside the boundary of yellow tape. I catch only a fragment of the headline: _Eight Die in Forks Blaze..._

Curious, I pull out my phone and search the phrase. The first hit is from a regional paper.

Three days ago, the Catholic church on the west side of town went up in flames. It took firefighters several hours to quell the inferno. According to a source within the Forks fire department, nine bodies were found inside the church recreation room. A member of the congregation says Pastor Weber was among the deceased, as well as eight parishioners who had attended a weekly bible study that evening. Authorities would not provide any information about why none of the victims were able to escape the fire.

"Sorry that took so long." Jake sits across from me and places our breakfast on the table. He puzzles over my expression for a moment, then notices the article on my phone. "Ah, yeah. Gory stuff, huh?"

"When were you going to tell me about this?" I demand, holding my phone up to Jake. He looks at the screen and frowns. "It's happening again."

"Bella, it was a tragic accident. Nothing more."

"Were the doors locked?"

"Bella..." He sighs, shaking his head.

"Chains on the doors, or something blocking—"

"Hey." Jake takes my phone from me and places it face-down on the table. "Don't get worked up about it." He scans the room, then lowers his voice. "You have better chance of being murdered in Seattle than Forks."

"Any other time of year, I'd agree with you."

"I know this must be difficult, but it has nothing to do with you."

"It's just a coincidence that it happens a week before I arrive, right? A week before the Halloween—"

"Come on. Don't tell me you're buying into the superstition now. You always hated this stuff."

"Still do. But come October, people seem to find a way of dying around here. You ever take a walk through the cemetery? Whole of lot 10s on those gravestones."

"Wow." He bites into his muffin and offers me a grimace. "Honestly, Bella, you surprise me."

But I'm not surprised. Even as kids, he was always the more pragmatic one. Reckless and impulsive, yes. Still, he gave little credence even to the stories of his own tribe. They were campfire tales. Something to pass down through the generations as a means of claiming their identity, but not to be taken literally.

And if it's all in my head, then why is every other friend I ever had in this town dead?

"Oh, and before I forget," Jake says, "my dad's invited you out to the house for dinner tonight. Does seven work?"

"Um..."

"Come on. He'd love to see you. It'd break his old, cranky heart if you left town without making an appearance. Please? _Please_?"

"Yeah, fine. Seven." I've always been a soft touch.

"Good. Great." His phone rings, and he pulls it out of his pocket to look at the screen. "Hang on just a sec," he says. "Gotta take this."

The bell above the door chimes as Jake steps outside to answer the phone. I peel apart my croissant and pop the first bite, then look up to see a blonde woman glaring at me across the room. I don't recognize her. She's too old to be a former classmate, too young to have been one of my teachers. But she stares, unflinching, with a clear derision in her eyes. I avert my attention elsewhere. Then the man at the counter. The barista and an old lady coming out of the bathroom. The man with the iPad and a family of four behind me. They've all stopped dead. Motionless. No more conversations or acoustic music through the speakers. No more coffee grinders or gurgling milk steamers. Silence.

They begin to change. Their skin turns pale gray. Eyes become cloudy white. Flesh peeling away from bone. They appear thin and emaciated, decomposed.

"Go home, Bella." The boy. Just a child. Sitting in his mother's lap. Sandy brown hair and rosy pink lips turned pallid. He stares into me and projects clearly. "You shouldn't be here," he says again. "Go home."

Then the bell chimes, and the spell is broken. All at once, the noise returns, and everyone goes about their task, unaware. Except for me.

"Sorry about that. I've got to run. Duty calls." Jake grabs his coffee cup and the remnants of his muffin. "You okay to get home? I'll pick you up tonight."

#

Later, I take Charlie's truck and end up at the charred remains of the church. There's little left on the spot where a white clapboard building once stood. It was small, just a narrow chapel with a rec room, office, and modest kitchen. I came here once with Angela, Pastor Webber's daughter, for an Easter egg hunt. Charlie was never very religious, so I'm not either. I think he got a tree every year at Christmas because it's just what people do.

Now the site is nothing but ash and black shards of wood sticking out of the ground. Jagged fingers of hell reaching up. There are scattered bibles, broken pieces of stained glass catching light and shooting colors across the ground. I wander the perimeter first, stepping over the remains of pews and thick ceiling beams. Then I grab a snapped tree branch, probably brought down by the fire hoses, and use it to sift through the debris. I'm searching for a door. Any exterior door. For some evidence that this isn't all happening in my head. Soot puffs up in clouds around my legs, sticks to my clothes and blackens my hands. Most of it from the tinderbox building—undoubtedly some of it human.

Something glints in the sunlight. I throw down the stick, dig with my hands. One foot of thick chain strung through two metal door handles. A padlock clasped shut. This is how it happened ten years ago. Thirty-one people trapped inside a theater, every exit locked or barred shut from the outside. And me, standing on the sidewalk below the marquee, watching it all burn.

Suddenly, the air around me changes. Anguished and cold. Birds make no sounds. A breeze moves through the trees, though their leaves shiver in silence. The church rises in front of me. Clean white siding and tall, colorful windows lit from inside. The sun recedes, replaced by the moon and stars. Cars pull into the parking. Their passengers file out and follow the walkway up to the steps and inside the church. Then the church is in flames. Huge plumes of smoke climb into the sky. The entire building crackles and screams. Roaring conflagration and violent horror.

"Bella."

Her voice startles me. I drop the chained handles at my feet and turn to see Darlene, still sixteen years old, wearing the same oversized black T-shirt and worn-out jeans. Big, green eyes. Fine blonde hair always a bit greasy at the as she was the day we met at Candlewood. The last time I ever saw Charlie. She was beautiful then, and I envied her. Others were put off by her scars. The pink lines all over her face, neck, and arms. They averted their eyes, grimaced at the sight of her. I barely noticed them. It's been years, and she looks exactly the same. Only she isn't really here. She can't be.

"You shouldn't be here," she says in that soft, knowing voice. So full of weight and years beyond her age. Burdened.

"Are you dead?" I ask. "Are you a ghost?"

"You can't stay here, Bella."

"Why not?"

"Leave. Now. Or you will die here. Just like the others."

She reaches, grasps my shoulder so hard I nearly collapse. It is night again. Utter blackness so thick and opaque it feels as if it is has no end. Then I sense something. It pricks my nerves and starts my pulse racing. I'm being watched. There are trees, cloaked in night. Dark outlines rising up from the ground.

"Darlene?"

"You can run," she says, unseen, "but it will catch you."

In an instant, I'm sprinting through the trees. Into the boundless black. Scared. Frantic. Running from what, I can't see, but I feel its hunger. Its fury. Permeating the air. Hot, dreadful rage chases my every step. Then I'm snapped up, off my feet and pinned, back against a tree with something clapping down around my neck.

"This is where you die, Bella. It will be slow, painful. You will die in violence. Unless you leave now. Never come back."

I blink, and the vision recedes. Again, it is only Darlene and me amidst the ashes of the church. Her eyes turn to pools of oil—liquid current swimming inside her skull.

"Please, Darlene. Tell me. Is this real? Am I..."

A siren sounds in the distance. It pulls my attention for only a moment, but in that instant, Darlene is gone. It is dusk now. I have no idea how long I've been here or what to do next.

I don't want to go back to the house. Nor am I prepared to leave Forks and return to Seattle with so many questions unanswered. Then something occurs to me. Something Darlene said. There were others.

I get back in Charlie's truck and pull out my phone to search for other recent deaths. Nothing. No odd obituaries in the Forks paper. No mentions of recent murders or missing persons. Not one word about the church. Even Mr. Sumner's very public demise doesn't get so much as a cursory platitude-riddled write-up. Because tourists. Heaven forbid any real horror and tragedy should spoil their fun. Bleach the sidewalk and wash the blood from the pavement. All's forgotten.

That's not good enough for me.

When I reach the center of town, the parade has started. Elaborate floats mounted on trailers pulled by pickup trucks. Costumed ghouls and creatures of all sorts tossing candy to the children and visitors lining the street. Hundreds of people packed on the sidewalks. I leave the truck parked along a side street. In the parking lot of the grocery store, a small stage and food vendors. Kids' games and face painting. The entire town is distracted. Which seems like a perfect opportunity.

I head to the police station first. The guy at the intake desk gives me only a half-hearted hassle about getting into Charlie's old office. I play wounded and say I just want to collect some of his personal items. They haven't touched it since his death. I won't be but a minute. He agrees as we both knew he would.

Charlie wasn't much for computers, so I start with the files on his desk. Speeding tickets. A couple B-and-Es and drunken disorderly. The tall file cabinet against the wall is locked. In his top desk drawer, I search for the key. Beneath the sticky note pads, pens, paperclips, I find a photograph. I'm five years old. The year Charlie hung the tree swing in the back yard. Before the first incident. There's a big table set up, with a colorful paper tablecloth and stacks of wrapped presents. In the corner, an open grill with smoke wafting up. And surrounding me are all my friends in little pointed birthday hats. I'm on the swing, kicking at the air. Smiling. Everyone in this picture is dead. Everyone but me. I fold the photo and stick it in my pocket.

In the back of the drawer, I find a small set of keys which unlock the filing cabinet. I have no idea what I'm looking for until I see a thick folder marked with black ink scribbled over whatever label used to be beneath it.

A logger, out on the jobsite. Time came for his crew to punch out, but Robert Grimes didn't come back with the other men. First, his co-workers went out looking, thinking he might have been injured or his radio went dead. Then the police and firefighters joined the search deep into the night and thick forest beyond the logging site. It was seven the next morning when Charlie found a scrap of Robert's reflective yellow vest on the ground. And above, Robert's body hanging thirty feet up in the tree.

Joanne and Dean Maycott. Their kayaks washed up near the motel on the northwest side of town where the Calawah river cuts through. Both were stripped naked and posed holding each other's hearts in their hands, the gaping chest wounds filled with their shirts stained red in blood. They wore crowns of leaves and wildflowers.

At least a dozen bizarre cases dating back twenty years. Each more horrific than the last. All with some degree of uncertainty. No evidence to point the finger at a suspect. But at the back of the file, a photocopy of an old Alaska driver's license clipped to a stack of Charlie's handwritten notes.

His name is Edward Cullen, born June 20, 1972. I'd guess him to be in his mid-twenties in the photo. Reddish brown hair, green eyes. Handsome, actually. But Charlie was suspicious. He wrote notes like "alias?" next to his name. "Birthplace unknown." No history at all, in fact. No schools or past jobs. Reading through the pages, I piece together that Charlie became curious about Edward not long after my mother left. Apparently, there were three missing or dead in the preceding weeks.

Margot Lane: last seen leaving the closing shift at Cricket's Tavern. Never found.

Travis Weeks: found in his driveway, entrails exposed.

Luis LeBlanc: decapitated by unknown means.

Seems Edward showed up around the same time, taking up residence in a house just outside town, near the border of the reservation. Charlie spent months tracking down who actually owned the house, just to reach a dead end behind LLCs and offshore shell companies. Same with the address from Alaska. Then nothing. Either Charlie gave up, or the rest is hidden elsewhere. I get the sense that Charlie pegged this Edward for a serial killer. If not, he was a suspicious character turning up at a rather inopportune moment.

Nevertheless, I can't stick around here any longer. If the watchdog outside hasn't noticed yet how long I've been in here, he will soon. I quickly make photocopies of Charlie's files and stuff them down the leg of my jeans. As I'm putting the original folder back, I spot another folder that's fallen to the bottom of the drawer. It has my mother's name on it.

For years, Charlie tried to find her. Pages of notes tracking missing persons and Jane Does that fit her description. Private detectives all over the country. Then, he gave up. The last entry is dated July, 2007. Just a few months before the theater fire. I place the folder back where I got it. She didn't want to be found, anyway.

When I reach the lobby, Jake is standing in front of the intake desk and chatting with the other officer.

"Bella? What are you doing here?"

"Oh, uh, I just came in to collect a few things from Charlie's office. You know. Mementos."

"Where are they?" He stands up straight, hands on his belt.

"What?"

"Your mementos."

Shit. That would have made for a much better cover. Find a file box, throw a few plaques in there. Something.

"Yeah, um. I decided maybe they'd better stay with the department, you know? History preservation and all that. It'd all just end up in a closet at my place anyway. So that would seem like a waste."

"I see." He knows I'm lying. In the crease of his brow, the way his eyes bore through my skull. I don't know if it's him or the uniform, but he can be intimidating when he tries.

"Yeah, so... I just wanted to sit there awhile. Remember him."

"Well." He spares a glance at the other officer, a silent rebuke. Then he taps his hand on the desk and plasters on that same friendly, eager smile he wore when he invited me to breakfast. "How about I give you a ride home?"

"I drove Charlie's truck." I make steps toward the door, hoping Jake doesn't notice the irregular shape of the folded papers padding the thigh of my jeans.

"Actually, you know, I can give you a lift out to the auto shop." Jake matches my steps, closing in on me. "Had your car towed over there this morning. I was going to mention it when I picked you up later. Been a little hectic today with the parade and all."

"I'll call over there. I've got to contact my insurance and so, yeah. I'll see you later. Seven, right? Can't wait." And I bolt for the door.

Outside, the streets are teeming. Hundreds of people amid neon lights and competing soundtracks. Jingling music and creepy melodies in minor chords. Every shop window lit up with strings of purple, red, and orange lights. Fog machines spew misty white. An enormous bonfire in the town square. Kids running around with jack-o-lantern facepaint. In the empty field behind the town historical society building, a carnival is in full swing. Rides and games, the wafting scents of funnel cakes and cotton candy.

When I finally make it to Charlie's truck, the engine won't start. Not even a reluctant whine or rumble. Just dead. I would call Jake, get a ride from him, but I don't have his number saved. I could go back to the police station, but something stops me.

LIAR.

That word is still scratched across the wall of the den at Charlie's house. A large part of me believes I put it there myself. That I fell asleep and acted out my nightmare. Deep down, though, I've understood the meaning and not wished to think on it. I can't trust Jake. I don't why or to what purpose, but he's hiding something.

Heading away from the festivities on foot, I notice someone following me. It's too dark to make out a face. A few yards back, on the opposite side of the street. The temperature drops. Frigid. I can't hear the carnival anymore. The bleating melodies or cheering children. And someone else. Behind me. I walk faster toward the intersection. Several more people coming from the left. At least a dozen more from the right. More still, behind me, nearing from the carnival. Cloaked and costumed. Almost marching in unison. Unnatural, possessed. None of them speak. Not a word or sound. I'm trapped at the intersection, caged in.

One approaches me. Closer. Stepping out from the closing crowd. She pulls her sweater hood from her head to reveal long, wispy blonde hair past her shoulders. Darlene.

"What do you want from me?" I shout at her.

"Get out, Bella. Get out now, or die here."

The crowd parts. A clear path toward escape. Toward the bridge and the town limits. Toward Seattle and the little normal, imperfect life I've built for myself.

"Tell me if this is real!" I demand again. "Why is this happening to me?"

A set of headlights comes around a corner up ahead in the distance. The sound of an engine nearing. I recognize Jake in the driver's seat of the squad car and decide he is the least threatening option. I dart for the car and jump in.

"Tell me you see them," I say, nearly out of breath.

"What's wrong?" He puzzles over me, eyes wide and alarmed. Confused.

"Them." I point out the window. "Those people. You do see them, right?"

Jake glances ahead, looks around. "Bella, who are you talking about?"

So that's it, then. I am crazy. A sad, sick little girl trapped in the terror of her own mind. A cage of my own making.

"Just take me home. Get me out of here, please."

"Yeah." Jake puts the car in gear and turns us around, back the way he came. "Hey, it's okay. I'm here for you."

I can't stop shaking. Jake turns up the heat, but I can't get warm. Flashes of fire and blood invade my mind. Terrible screams of pain and anguish. I almost don't realize we aren't heading back to Charlie's house.

"Jake, where are we going?"

"Back to my place," he says. "It's all right. You're safe with me." Jake grasps my hand, and that same sensation returns. Revulsion and rage. Burning, vicious hatred. I don't know where it comes from, overwhelming in its ferocity. Immediate and stunning in its power.

"You'll be okay, Bella. Just relax."

Something bright catches my eyes. Out the window. A flash; then it's gone. Again, a second later. Beside the car. Just a glimpse. Then it appears ahead of us. Emerges from nothing.

"Jake, watch out!"

It's too late. We collide with something, and I'm thrown forward in my seat. Glass shatters; metal screams. The airbag explodes in my face, and all I hear is sharp, shrill ringing.

 **October 31**

The scent of burning wood reaches me first. Crackling fire. I feel the warmth on my face, see the light through my closed eyelids. I'm certain it's a dream until I feel a hand on my face. My eyes shoot open; my body jerks upright. But the sudden motion makes me dizzy. Feels like I'm spinning in midair.

"Careful, careful."

He helps me sit up. I'm on a couch in a large living room. A fire going in the fireplace. Then I notice the man standing beside me.

"Where am I?" I ask, rubbing my eyes. There's dry blood on my fingers, embedded beneath my nails. It's sticky to the touch.

"My home," he says, obscured in shadow with the light of the flames dancing around the edges of his silhouette. "You've been asleep for several hours."

All at once, it hits me. "Jake! Where's Jake?"

"He's alive. His people will find him."

"His people?" Scanning the room, I realize I'm not on the reservation. Certainly not at Charlie's. I don't know this place. Dark, except for the light from the fireplace. Big, open, the kind of house no one in Forks could afford.

"Who are you?" I try to stand, but the dizziness and nausea knock me down again. It's night. The same night? "Where am I, and why have you brought me here?"

"Bella..." The man comes to sit on the coffee table in front of me. I blink, trying to focus on his face, but the image is blurry. "If you want to see me, concentrate, and you will."

"What does that mean?" He doesn't reply, so I try. I stare at the unfocused image. For just a fleeting second, I think I see Darlene. But it's just a trick of the light. Just my psychosis taking hold. Still, his face remains in shadow. "Answer me."

"I pulled you from the car," he says. "And I brought you here."

"But where is here? Why not the hospital? Why did you just leave Jake behind?"

"Because you can't trust him."

The shadows clear from my vision. I see his face clearly. A new pang of fear shoots right through my gut.

"I know you. I've seen your picture. But..." He's too young. The man in the photo should be 45 by now. This man, he is exactly the same. Not much older than I am, if at all.

"You've known me much longer than that."

He puts his hand on my cheek, and the room falls away.

 _I'm five years old again, standing in a puddle of blood in my bedroom._

"I first found you here," he says. "An innocent child."

 _A writhing, crumpled creature lies on the floor. Not a man. Not entirely. It shakes and moans, convulsing at my feet while I bleed, stricken and unable to move._

"What is it?"

"A creature you would call a vampire. I had hunted him to this town after he killed the one who made me. Months earlier, he came across your mother. But rather than kill her, he decided to make her like him. Soon, she became unsatisfied with her new life, so she asked him to reunite you both in immortality. There was a consequence he could not foresee, however. Your blood was poisonous. Only a small fraction of humans are. From the moment he tasted it, he began to wither and die. I used my own blood to heal you. And I intended to leave you in peace, safe now from any threat. But I made a mistake."

 _Then I'm thirteen, sitting in the darkened movie theater beside Jessica Stanley and Angela Webber. Jessica is mad because Mike didn't sit next to her._

"He wasn't alone. He had a lover. A broken, afflicted woman with nothing in her heart but violence and vengeance. I chased her away from this town, but she returned."

 _Something beckons me. Not a voice or sound, but a compelling feeling I'm helpless to refuse. It calls me outside. Next to this indistinct presence, I watch as a woman walks out of the theater, then chains the doors shut. She's short, thin. Barely older than I am at the time. Skin so white and pale she's practically moonlight. Then smoke begins to seep from beneath the door. Screams and pounding. Flames climbing out from the roof. She watches. Just in front of us. Never once noticing I'm there._

"I couldn't save them. I decided to let her think you died with the others and concealed you from her."

 _And a few days later, I'm assigned my room at Candlewood. There, I meet Darlene for the first time. Her scars are beautiful. I don't have to tell her. She just knows. That behind me is darkness and death. We become best friends. Until the day I turn eighteen and am released. I go to say goodbye to her, but she's gone. We never speak again._

"You?" I ask. It's something intangible, but I feel it with no less certainty. "You? All that time. But how? Why?"

 _I'm in Charlie's living room. It's dark, empty. A tomb._

"Not long before the fire, your mother came back for you again. Instead, she found Charlie. Nearly killed him. But I was able to intervene. In doing so, however, I exposed myself to him. To keep my secret, he asked me to watch over you. He understood he was ill-equipped to fight what stalked you. And in truth, I felt responsible. If I had succeeded in killing that creature that came for you, if he hadn't been able to turn your mother, you wouldn't have become the object of his lover's obsession. She lives only to torment you. To take pleasure in your suffering. And eventually, she'll grow bored and kill you."

"So you've been the one doing this to me. Terrifying me, making me think I'm crazy and trying to chase me out of town."

"Yes." In Charlie's living room, Edward lurks in the shadows, in this artificial construct he's created around us. "But only to protect you from what waits. From a painful, excruciating death."

"How are you doing this?" I'm still sitting on Edward's couch. I feel the fabric beneath my palms, but I see myself walking through Charlie's house. Every detail exact.

"We have the ability to manipulate human minds. Create sights, sounds. We can compel you to our will."

"So you tried to throw me off a bridge? You threw a man to his death on my car?"

"No, Bella. That was her. Alice. She's been toying with you. Like a cat with a mouse by the tail. I've tried to find her. To stop her. She's quite elusive, I'm afraid. Not easy to kill. Bella..." Edward emerges from the shadows. "This is a tremendous burden to carry. If you choose, I can take it away. Every bad memory. Every painful moment you can't bear to think about. The decision is yours, but be certain of your choice. It cannot be undone."

I don't have to consider it. "I'd rather have the truth."

Instantly, the façade evaporates. We're in his home again. And for the first time, I see him clearly. Handsome. Too young. A mystery. But also my friend. He is the same person who woke me from my nightmares at Candlewood and talked to me until I fell asleep again. He saved me from a burning building. And he let my friends die.

"I don't know how I'm supposed to feel about this. You. Any of it," I tell him.

"You are not beholden to me or any emotion in particular. I expect your hatred, your resentment. I did not save your life for gratitude. I simply couldn't refuse."

A realization slams into me, cutting through the chaos rolling through my brain. "You crashed Jake's car. Why? What happened to him?"

"He is not your friend, Bella. Whatever they've told you of your father's death is a lie. I'm certain he killed your father and staged it as an accident. Beat him over the head and threw his body into the water."

"What?" I jump from the couch. "That's not true." I pace the floor, trying to quiet the competing voices in my head. "That—that can't be true."

"If you're honest with yourself, Bella, you know it is. I believe he killed your father to draw you back here. For what purpose, I can't be certain. But he intends to use you. I can see no other reason than to offer you as bait to finally kill Alice."

Jake said he had tried to find me, but Charlie wouldn't provide an answer. My father had left no means to contact me. The lawyer had gone to considerable trouble and several failed attempts before one last shot in the dark finally found me. And Jake insisted I couldn't leave too soon. Was it possible that he'd sabotaged my truck?

"The other murders..." I hesitate to ask. For the moment, Edward is a friend. But what kind of friend, exactly?

"I've never killed anyone who didn't deserve it," he says flatly. His green, shining eyes hold no malice or contempt—only flat, detached severity.

"And what does that mean?"

"Rapists. Predators. Those who prey on the weak and vulnerable. No, Bella. I'm not Charlie's serial killer. Eventually, he came to the same conclusion. But Alice and the male, Jasper, they were ruthless, gruesome. It was sport for them. We aren't all alike."

"Then what do I do now?" I can't just ignore the possibility that Jake killed Charlie to lure me here. Nor can I ever sleep again now, knowing that Alice is out there, waiting for me.

"Run. As I've tried to tell you. Get as far from here as you can and never return. I can make sure you're not followed. And I'll continue hunting her, ensure she can't hurt another innocent."

But that doesn't sound like much of a plan. I go back to Seattle, except this time, I'm always looking over my shoulder. Afraid of shadows and dark alleys. Never knowing when I might be compelled to throw myself from a bridge. Step out in front of a bus. Slit my own wrists and bleed to death on the floor. Or keep running. Always moving. Never a moment's peace. Now that I know it was all real, is real, I can't simply ignore the truth. And I can't let anyone else die in my place.

"No," I tell him. "I'm not running again."

"Bella." He crosses the room, comes to grasp my shoulders. "Please. You don't understand how powerful she is. You won't even see her before she's upon you. She doesn't even have to touch you to—"

"No, Edward. I do understand. I know better than anyone because I've lived it. My entire life. The only difference is, now I finally know what I'm up against. And if there's a chance that I can finally stop this... I'd rather die trying."

Four loud bangs echo through the house. Edward, alert, tells me to stay hidden as he goes to the front door. Seconds later, I hear Jake's angry voice.

"Step aside," he orders.

"You're not getting inside," Edward says calmly but with a bite of violence.

"I know she's here. Bella!"

I step out from around the corner. Edward isn't pleased, begging me with his eyes to stay, but there is no salvaging this situation. I stay, I run, and Jake comes back here with a posse. More people get hurt while Alice roams free. The only choice is to go with him and see where Jake leads me.

#

Jake came for me in his truck. The patrol car, I assume, is now just a mangled mess of metal on the side of the road. We don't speak at first, traveling in darkness toward the reservation. He has bruises and cuts across his face. His nose might be broken. But we don't talk about the crash. He doesn't ask how I ended up at Edward's house or how he found me there. I suspect we both assume we're all caught up now. The secrets are out. Until I just can't stand the silence any longer.

"Why, Jake?"

"Don't," he snaps back, attention only on the road.

"No, I deserve an answer. You want to feed me to this thing, and I demand to know why."

"Because you people brought them here. These _things_ didn't exist until the invaders brought them over on their boats. For decades, they slaughtered us. Entire tribes decimated. Whole families murdered. It wasn't enough that the white men took our land and raped our women. You brought your demons, too."

"What about the stories? That the tribe helped the settlers drive out the vampires?"

"A story, Bella. A stupid kids' tale. The ancestors made a treaty with the town. We would each sacrifice just a few to save the many. The sick, the dying. The criminals. The demons didn't care for the difference. They just wanted blood. And in return, we could have peace and not live in constant fear. Our families would be safe. But the town broke their promise. And then they just forgot. Generations passed. But we kept the promise. Sacrifice a few of yours to protect our own."

Jake abruptly stops on the side of the road. He shuts off the engine and gets out of the car to come around to my side.

"Get out," he orders me. There's no remorse or indecision. He's committed to this path, and so am I.

"Where are we going?"

He grabs my wrist and drags me into the woods, among the tall silhouettes of trees and crackling sound of dead leaves beneath our feet. She isn't here yet. Alice. I still hear the crickets and owls. The breeze above our heads and the critters skittering across branches. I consider how this might play out. Burning me at a stake doesn't seem as if it would do much good. I'm more useful with blood running free in my veins. So how will he do it? And how will I survive it? Because surely Jake doesn't intend to allow me to walk out of here when it's over.

It's several minutes before we come to a stop at no point in particular. None that I can discern, anyway.

"How long?" I ask.

"What?"

"How long have you been a murderer? How long have you known what your people have been doing? Offering human sacrifices for slaughter?"

"That's an awfully easy judgment for you, isn't it? But it wasn't only vampires who came to kill us. Who chased us off our land and killed our animals. Every year, the loggers encroach farther and farther onto our lands. Hunters trespass and kill our wildlife. Fishermen pull their hauls from our waters. The town pollutes our rivers. We are barely surviving, Bella. Not just then, but now. Do you have any idea how humiliating it is to go buy meat from a grocery store when just a few decades ago, we had more game than we'd ever need to hunt? To buy your fucking bottled water. To work in your stores and factories and still be treated like filthy savages. We're harassed on the street and mocked. No, Bella, I feel no shame for who I am or what we've done to survive. I only wish that thing would kill more of you. Maybe then, my people could stop living like peasants and finally get our dignity back."

It's then I realize there are no villains here, no heroes. Only what one will do to survive. And who they have to do it to.

"There was supposed to be a better way to do this," he says, taking a knife from his pocket. "But your friend has made that impossible."

Quickly, almost mercifully, Jakes slashes the knife across both of my wrists. The pain is severe, but it fades just as fast. As the blood seeps out, dripping on the dead leaves and wet ground, it becomes easy to consider slipping gracefully into a deep, silent sleep.

"You have a fighting chance," he says. "Trust me, you'd rather bleed out than let her peel your flesh from the bones. Just try to get some of it in her mouth. In her eyes. Anything. As much as you can. It's not just the tribe you'll be saving."

I let him walk away. I don't chase. I don't try to follow or run aimlessly through the black forest. This was my choice, and as long as I can still stand, am still breathing, I will try to see it through.

As best I can, I cover my wrists with my hands to stem the bleeding. The cuts are straight across. It'll be slow. Gradual. If I can keep my heartrate down. I lift my arms above my head. Concentrate on my breathing. Steady. In and out.

It isn't long before the chill seeps into my bones. Before the insects quiet and I sense her approach. She can't hide herself from me, not entirely. She doesn't even try. At a distance, I watch her approach. Short, thin. Her skin is pale white and seems to shine in the moonlight. She has a child's face. Tight, narrow lips and a pointed chin. A slight nose and big, fascinated eyes. She even smiles at me. It is a look of predatory delight, I know.

"Poor little Bella, all alone and left to die."

Her voice is deceptively sweet. Song-like. A murderous, vile doll come to life.

"You can run, if you'd like. I won't think less of you if you scream."

I'm not interested in making this entertaining for her. I'm not here to indulge her need to savor the vengeance. And the longer this takes, the more I feel myself slipping toward unconsciousness.

"I'm right here. Come get m—"

The word isn't out of my mouth before she's got me by the throat, lifting me off my feet. Just as Darlene showed me. As Edward showed me. Surrounded by darkness and struggling for breath. Then I'm tossed, thrown aside. My head cracks against a tree, and I land in a heap in the mud. I can't catch my breath before she's on me again; her nails open a gash across my stomach. Claws, straight down my face. Again, across my chest. Frantic and angry. Struggling is worthless. She's too strong. Too quick. The pain is blinding and everywhere. Every nerve screaming in agony. And I do too. I'm hoisted in the air just to be flung again. Pulled up and bashed against a tree. I hear my skull crack and the throbbing, liquid sensation it brings.

Alice gets on top of me. Her weight snaps my ribs. Each one a new crack of excruciating pain. I won't live much longer. I can't. I don't want to. I just need the pain to end. She puts both hands around my neck and squeezes. She talks, shrieks in gruesome delight as the darkness closes in around me. With the last bit of feeble strength I can muster, I reach up toward her face. Blind and desperate, I swipe at her, feel the thick, warm liquid sliding and smearing between us. I manage to stick my fingers in her mouth, and she clamps down. Right through the bone, severing the first two digits on my left hand. It's the last sensation I'm aware of before it all ceases to be.

 **November 1**

The sun on my face wakes me. Blinking, I open my eyes to a room I don't recognize. The bedclothes are white. The walls a pale blue. The furniture all matching and expensive. I'm not in a hospital, and I recognize immediately that Edward's brought me back to his house.

"Edward?"

I expect pain when I try to sit up, but there is none. I'm wearing a clean white t-shirt and gray pajama pants too big for my body. I've been bathed, my hair washed. All the mud, blood, and unpleasantness erased. I reach up to brush my hair from my face, only to experience an odd, truly startling sensation. The first two digits on my left hand are missing. The skin since healed over at each second knuckle. Out of bed, I take off my shirt to stand in front of the mirror. Scars across my face. My chest and abdomen. Healed, just as Edward healed my wrist when I was a child.

"Edward?"

That's when I turn to notice a piece of paper on the nightstand.

 _Bella,_

 _Stay as long as you like. You are safe here, and no one will come for you._

 _Jake is dead. Alice killed him before she got to you, and I intend to strike a bargain with the tribe to end the sacrifices. It is my hope they will see it is ultimately in their best interest._

 _But if you choose to leave, no one will follow._

 _Before you decide, go into the bathroom. I wish I could be there myself, but I must first ensure we've left no evidence behind._

 _Take all the time you need to make your choice. I won't return until you wish me to. Know, however, that if you will it, you aren't alone._

 _Sincerely,_

 _Edward_

I step into the bathroom, aware of the decision that waits for me. I understand the consequences before I see the glass sitting on the counter. As the thick, warm red liquid reaches my lips. Because I knew, when I returned to Forks, I wouldn't make it out alive.

 **THE END**


End file.
